Really Good Feelings
by candysays
Summary: M-rated supplements to Good Feelings. Each chapter on its own will be essentially a little PWP. If that's your thing, no need to read the epic. If M-rated stuff not your thing, these won't be necessary to follow the main story. John/Claire.
1. Chapter 1

Here in your bedroom, ounce for ounce.

--Violent Femmes

AN: This is the promised "b side" that goes to the end of Chapter 16 of my fic Good Feelings. And let's just say--it left most of its plot behind in that story :)

_______________

Claire Standish was lying in her bed with a boy who could be dangerous and she'd just asked him to put his hands in her shirt. This was a different state of affairs from what she was used to. She wasn't sure she could ever get used to it, and she wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

Her skin and body felt heated under the boy's hands and she could feel each place on her skin where his hands had touched and then stopped touching. His touch made trails on her skin like bright light makes in darkness, burning white then fading into colors beneath closed lids.

She had butterflies beneath her skin like she had all week and some continued to flutter in delicious expectation but some of them were nervous butterflies, not sure about spreading their wings so soon.

Claire did not know why she kept going a little farther with John Bender than she felt like she should, or than she was quite ready for, but there it was. In the moment when he'd be angry or she'd be angry they'd both be so hot there was no stopping it, and the frenzy and even the anger had helped make it ok for her—a contrast to the control of their 'lessons,' those frenzied moments made sex less a decision to be made than a means of avoidance, an out. It was, as John had growled, stopping thinking. It meant not having to think through her own want.

It meant making John do all the thinking.

Claire was vaguely aware of doing something not quite right, but she didn't know what it was.

She'd asked him to put her hands up her shirt because she knew how much he liked hearing it and because she'd agreed beforehand and gotten what she wanted. If the general balance was that a girl wanted feelings and a boy wanted sex, then the exchange was working as it should. If it was true that feelings made a girl want sex and sex made a boy agree to feelings, then wasn't this how things should be? Although if anyone had asked her what she would need in order to feel comfortable going to second base with a boy, she would not have said a story about a sloth.

Then again, comfortable wasn't the word.

These feelings must have registered in her eyes or her breathing because John Bender, instead of plunging his hand up and _on_ like she had expected, had slowed his movements and was lying next to her, propped on his elbow, playing with the straps of her camisole lazily, as he had done before. He looked relaxed, strangely at home on her ridiculous pink and white princess bed. A smile played over his lips, as if he had thought of a joke.

"I think we'd better have some review of this material, Claire." His voice sounded lazy and controlled at the same time but there was a veiled urgency underlying the surface tones that made Claire catch her breath. The fact that John Bender wanted her and wanted her enough to control himself was endlessly fascinating and exciting to Claire, as was the thought of having that control vanish. The glimpses she'd had of that grown-up want and hunger in his eyes and in his mouth were exciting and dangerous and the hottest things she'd ever seen. But the way he could be controlled while she was losing control herself was maybe the second hottest thing and she knew that could be dangerous too, in a different way.

But this, this having the time to feel—it was so different from the closets and the classrooms and the anger. It gave her time to feel nervous.

And then again, there was John's finger, tracing its path over her cashmere camisole, tracing over the curves of her, where fabric met skin, hooking under, grazing her skin, trailing down her middle and then tracing up beneath the sweater, stroking between her shirt and her sweats lazily, back and forth and sending trails of heat and fluttering wings out from his fingers, underneath her shirt, underneath her skin. But he did not touch her on her bra. He was not going up her shirt. And Claire didn't know what to think about that.

She looked at him, but he was looking at her body and his eyes and his face seemed focused on that, seemed pleased with that, but were not giving anything else away.

Claire could feel that sense of want, now, in her chest. It was like an ache underneath the fluttering. It was like an ache to be touched but it was also like a fear, a fear of feeling too much, too much good, like eating only frosting could be too sweet and leave you with a sick feeling afterwards.

She looked at him. "Don't you want to—" She'd asked, after all.

He smiled, one side of his mouth going up farther than the other, like he was trying to rein it in.

"What's your hurry?" John started tracing slow figure eights on her chest, around her breasts, grazing the sides of them, but not touching them, and his touch was so light it was barely there at all. He put his mouth close to her ear and started talking. At the feel of his breath in her ear she could feel her body arch and she could feel his chuckle.

"See, Claire, I know you said that because you know I like to hear you say it. That in itself is hot as hell, I gotta say. I also know you said that because we had a bargain, and you want to do right by me, which is sweet as hell—which I realize makes no sense because hell isn't sweet but I already explained my brain doesn't work around you because of the hot as hell effect I discussed earlier."

John shook his head out a little and buried his face in her neck a minute. "God, you smell good." He shifted from circles for a minute to up and down lines, tracing all the way down her front and all the way up her neck to trace her jaw, then back down, slowly, watching how she moved and fluttered under his touch. Claire felt like all her insides were turning to liquid and she felt her hips move a little and then she felt John smile against her neck, and then he started talking again, "Anyway, what I was saying before I got lost for a minut there—what I was saying is that this tells me—and I want you to listen carefully, here, because there may be a quiz on this later—what this tells me is that you think that me touching you there, me feeling you up and putting my hands all over your chest, touching you all over here—you think that's something you're gonna let me do. You think that's something you're doing for me."

"Is that bad?" asked Claire nervously, shifting her body a little under his touch.

"No, like I said. I am—" and here he firmed his touch a little and started in with the circles again, making them just a little smaller, coming closer, and Claire found herself astonished by how badly her skin could want something, like it had a will of its own, "totally down with you wanting to make things hot for me, which is something at which you fucking excel, as you know. But this time, there's no rush, no panic and I think I want—I want to—cause you to revise your opinion on my feeling you up and who benefits. Can you see that?"

He didn't stop moving his hands but he wasn't touching her right where she wanted—right where she'd been afraid to have him touch.

"For someone who can't think, you seem to be doing a lot of talking," said Claire, petulantly. Her nervousness was getting drowned out by her skin.

"You fucking love my talking in your ear, Claire Standish, but what else did you have in mind?"

"I _told_ you," whispered Claire, feeling herself arch toward his hand, and then he started sucking slowly on her neck and she felt a kind of moaning cry come out of her mouth and she felt John chuckle again.

"I should have warned you, Princess, I have a terrible memory. What did you tell me?"

"Fuck you," said Claire, between clenched teeth. She wasn't nervous any more. She wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. He _knew_ what he was doing to her, and if he didn't touch her soon she thought she might _die._

"No, I won't. Not yet. Not even close." And now his voice got more gravelly, sharper. More like a growl, but still contained, controlled, but like it was harder to pull off and so sexy she thought she might scream just from the sound, let alone his breath and his tongue in her ear between words. He'd stopped the light circles and now just had his hand flat on her chest, broad and slightly rough against her skin, still not moving over her bra. "Because Princess, every single thing I do to you, with you, or for you, I am going to do because you are _desperate_ for me to do it, because you want it so fucking bad that you will go out of your mind if I don't. And not one second before. Because that is how I feel all the _fucking_ time and I think it's cute when couples _match_ like that." He moved his hand down a fraction—and then he hooked his finger under her bra strap and started playing with that. "Hmm. Light purple. Interesting." And he started right in on the circles again.

Somewhere, she registered his use of the word "couple" but she was too far gone in want to even react. "John—" He stared at her and his eyes looked dark black.

"For me or for you, Princess?"

She swallowed hard and just looked at him. She couldn't really speak. Staring at her, he started moving his hand down and then lightened the touch as he finally moved his hand over her, over her sweater, on the swell of her breast and then down. His hand on her was feather light but she arched up into it like she'd been shocked. She could feel tears in her eyes.

He spoke again. He didn't sound so controlled now, but suddenly, she couldn't look at him. "Like that? Is that what you want? Do you want me to touch you there?"

Claire nodded, but couldn't meet his eyes.

"Look at me and tell me, Claire."

It was hard to talk through her breathing, she raised her eyes to his face and his eyes didn't look black anymore, they looked—gentle. They looked full of yearning, like she'd seen before. She licked her lips and found her voice. "I want you to touch me there—I want—it feels like you said." She felt a tear roll out of her eye. She didn't know why she was crying.

He kissed the tear. "Just tell me if you want me to stop, sweetheart."

She shook her head no.

And then his hand was on her, tracing under, tracing over, and then cupping her fully and it was like nothing she'd ever felt. His hand was over the cashmere and she could feel its texture through her bra and then she felt his mouth come down onto hers and his tongue was wet and thick on her lips and in her mouth and his hand was over her, rubbing and cupping and teasing and then he took the tips of his fingers and grazed over her. She felt herself harden there more under his fingers and she moaned into his mouth, she was already moaning, arching up into him, and it was like trails of pleasure were going from where his hand was to everywhere throughout her body, between her legs, and then he put one leg over her and she could feel his erection on the outside of her thigh and then she noticed he was panting hard too.

She turned to him so they were chest to chest and he kept his hand on her, then moved it between their bodies so he could rub both her breasts at the same time, never stopping the rhythm of tongue on tongue. Suddenly, he broke the kiss, rolled on his back, moved his hand to _her _back, moved up her shirt in the back and put his other hand on her back to. He guided her Claire on top of him so she was straddling him, for the first time. She could feel him hard underneath her. She adjusted a little and watched in fascination as this incredible expression passed over his face and his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he moaned out, "Jesus _fuck_, Claire."

And he looked at her like she might be about to kill him.

Claire looked down at him and smiled, feeling a little shy and bashful. She bit her lip. His hand stilled on her and moved down to rub the tops of her thighs. He looked pretty pleased with himself but she figured that was ok. He'd made a good point.

"Ok." She said, really feeling a little embarrassed. But not so nervous any more. "So. You were right. I _did_ kind of think that was something we did for you. Wow."

John rolled his eyes back. "It works out well for us too, believe me," and he moved both hands onto her chest and started massaging her breasts. Claire moaned again and arched back, that felt _so good,_ and John shifted underneath her. She looked at him, suddenly worried.

"Is this ok?"

Staring at her like she might be crazy, he broke into a smile and took both nipples between his thumb and forefinger and pressed in. Claire gasped and felt her hips twitch against him. "Do you have _any fucking idea_ how good you feel, Claire?"

"Yeah," she breathed, and rocked backwards a little, "but I was talking about you." Claire was surprised she could speak. The feel of his hands on her and his cock pulsing up against her was so intense and so—ok with her, really, better than ok, that she was surprised there was any room for words. But she was worried because—she didn't feel like she wanted to go further. She felt, in fact, like this could take some getting used to.

"Very funny." John sounded a little pained but—definitely not bored. And he sounded—happy. And excited. Like—not just turned on excited. Like, boy in a candy shop excited. He sounded—cute. "Claire, do you remember how you gave me that little cashmere lesson in that classroom yesterday? Do you have _any_ idea how much I wanted to do this right then?"

Claire blushed. She shook her head no.

"That's because you're a fucking idiot, then. This is like guy heaven, ok?"

"Sweet-talker."

"You love it."

"I love it," she agreed simply, and watched as Johns eyes widened. She bent down and kissed him on the mouth, then on the bruise she'd left earlier. Lingering down close to him, she started kissing him and talking between kisses. "I love the whole thing. I love being with you. I love kissing you. I love teasing you. I love meeting you in closets and I love having you in my bed. I even kind of love fighting with you." She could feel her breasts pressing into his chest. She loved that too.

John took her face between his hands and just stared at her, and she realized his expression, his whole mood had changed. Like, suddenly had tears in his eyes again. "Are you saying more things you don't mean?" The words came out like he was struggling for a light tone. It hadn't worked.

Claire felt her lips curl up. How much did she love it when big tough John Bender got all puppy dog? For her? It was maybe the best thing ever. She put her hand up to his brow and stroked him there, letting her fingers trail through his hair. Then she felt his arms around her, hard. They gave a little squeeze as he asked again, more urgently, and to her surprise, sounding actually worried, "Are you?"

Shaking her head, Claire just said softly, "You know I'm not, John. Is that what scares you?"

And before Claire could blink, she was on her back again and John was on top of her and his mouth was all over her on her mouth, on her jaw, on her neck, in her ear, then licking all the way along the line of her sweater, back up. He slowed, started brushing her hair with his hand and just staring at her. "Say it again." There was a catch in his voice. His eyes were wet.

"I love the whole thing, John." She kissed his eyes, both of them, softly, tasting the salt on her tongue. "I love being with you. I love kissing you. I love _getting_ kissed by you." She started moving under him in a rhythm with her words and felt him pressing into her, but holding back. She said softly, "Does it feel good to just—move against me? Or is it bad?"

Through gritted teeth, John managed, "It's not bad."

Then Claire had an idea. She had an idea that it might not be a usual thing to ask but it seemed like it made sense.

"Maybe—I mean, my parents will be home soon, probably—we'll hear them, but maybe, after a minute if you're—you know, sore? Maybe I could—go downstairs and you could—take care of yourself a little and maybe you could—think about me while you—while you did."

John stopped still and looked at her liked she'd sprouted a second head. "_What?_"

Claire blushed. "Well—is that stupid? Sorry. I thought—"

"It's not. Go on." John was staring at her, not moving a muscle.

"Well—I just thought—I mean, I hear—it can get uncomfortable for guys and I can't—I'm just not there yet. I like this but I—I might just like this—just like this for a while, you know?"

"Claire—I like this too. Claire—I _love_ this. You don't—you don't have to worry about me, you—guys are full of shit, you know? It's not—it's not an obligation or—you just do what feels good, you don't do _anything_ else, do you hear me? And I can't keep saying this, I'll be—kicked out of guydom for fucking _ever._"

He looked crazed. He looked crazed and worried and completely blown away at the same time. Claire nodded. "Ok." But then she continued. She couldn't help smiling. She was _sure_ this could be a good idea. "I get that. But I thought you could maybe—and, you could think about me while you—you know, took care of yourself and I would—like that, I think. I would think it was sexy." She swallowed, then licked her lips, looking at him. "Like it wouldn't be just for you."

Shaking his head slightly, as if he might need to wake up, John spoke very deliberately. "You. Want me. To jack off thinking about you?"

"Would that not work?"

"It would _fucking _work. Claire—I can practically make myself come in Algebra class thinking about you. But you—would be ok with that?"

Claire shrugged, confused. "Why not? I mean—who else would I want you thinking about?" Then she realized. John Bender was _blushing._ "And I—I mean, I thought about _you,_ and touched myself last night—"

"You did _what?_"

"I—I touched myself—I thought—I don't know, I thought you might like it and I—_I_ liked it. I thought it was sexy. And I thought the idea of your liking it—I thought that was sexy too."

"You weren't wrong." John seemed to be getting over his completely surprising embarrassment because his breathing was getting heavier and his hand was back on her over her bra and Claire felt herself tighten under his hand and she watched him feel it too. He breathed in sharply. "Did you think about me touching you here? Did you touch yourself here and think of me?" He sounded fascinated.

"Yeah. But. It feels a lot better when you do it. But I also—I, you know, I thought about you, and I wore that scarf, and I—you know, touched myself _down there._ I don't usually. But it felt good. And so I thought--"

"Jesus. _Claire."_ He was practically shouting and he pressed _hard_ into her through his clothes. Claire found it felt pretty natural to hook a leg over his and start moving under him. He thrust into her and his eyes started to roll back. "_God,_ Claire, that is the fucking sexiest thing I have ever heard in my entire life."

"So you think it would work if you—you know?"

"I think it would work in about 10 seconds. Keep talking." He was moving over her again and she liked the friction.

"I'm—I think I could get better at the talking thing."

"You're a fucking genius."

"I love getting kissed by you. I loved giving you a hickey and making you moan. I loved masturbating with a scarf and knowing you'd wear it." John let out a strangled moan. "I loved knowing I could see it on you in the halls and know where it had been." She felt John get even harder against her. "I love feeling you against me like that. I love it that I get—all—liquidy, like, inside, it feels like that inside, and then, between my legs, it feels like that too."

John let out a little whine. "Oh, God, Claire—"

She smiled a little. Two could probably play at the making someone want something so much they could die from it game. Claire arched up into him. He groaned. "Hey, John, look at me."

He stilled, and looked. Claire was now just having fun. They were always just trading power, she realized, back and forth, and she didn't know if she liked it better when he had it or she did. Right now, she was feeling pretty high on having it, though. "I love it that you like feeling me up. I want you to do it just like you said, like, practically the first things you said to me. Do you remember?"

Wide-eyed, John nodded. "Did you want me to do it then?" he asked.

"It was the first time I ever really wanted anything like that. It freaked me out. Did you want to do it then?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No. You seemed like you hated me."

"Didn't mean you didn't have a nice chest. I'm maybe not the nicest guy in the world, but never mind. Now. Say it with me if you remember it so well."

And then she wanted him so badly—something about the idea of his wanting her right through his hate—that the power began to shift back the other way and she liked that too.

His hands moved with the words she spoke, laughing a little. "Under the blouse, over the bra, shoes off, hoping to hell your parents don't walk in? Then John's hand on the satiny fabric, so close to her, made her stop, made her feel serious, made her look at him.

"Was that a quiz? Do I pass?"

John nodded and this time didn't accompany it with a no. "Claire. I do like feeling you up. Seriously. A lot."

Claire nodded.

"And Claire—I don't hate you anymore."

She smiled.

"Mostly," he said, and dodged her swat.

"John—I'm going to _kill_ you!"

"You already fucking _are_, Little Miss Claire-I-like-teasing-the-living-fuck-out-of-John-Bender-more-than-I-like-breathing Standish!"

Claire felt a little self-conscious. And really. Like he didn't like teasing her too. But then—he'd be perfectly happy to _stop_ teasing, too. "Well—I thought I totally posed a workable solution for you."

And then he grabbed her again and kissed her some more. "I fucking _love_,"he said, between kisses, "your solution. I love it that you thought of it. I love it that you _think_ bout me—it's so fucking sexy."

Claire giggled. "I think about you a _lot. _Duh."

"Duh yourself. If you think a little—discomfort—isn't worth hanging out with you in your bed while you talk dirty to me and sweet to me and let me dry hump you until I feel like I could scream—you're _dead wrong_."

He bit a trail down her neck and she felt it in her breath and in a new pulse between her legs. She gasped and he kissed her mouth again and then looked at her again. "And I promise you, there isn't a guy in school who wouldn't kill to be me right now, and I kind of dig that too. I dig—the whole thing, too, Claire."

And he even looked serious for a minute. Then he said, "Especially if you're really going to feed me and let me watch basketball."

Claire sniffed, starting to get up. "You used the word 'couple' to _pertain_ to us. Don't _even_ think I didn't catch that just because I couldn't use words at the time."

John stretched. "It can be—like a, verb. Meaning, like fucking. That was probably how I used it." He fell back into the pile of pink and white pillows, laughing. "Jesus Christ, Claire, I can't believe you called me a gentleman and made me blush in the same night. The world has gone completely insane."

"Just because you can use—grammar words—does not mean you can outsmart me, by the way." Claire brushed her hair out with her fingers and looked in the mirror, wiping some stray trails of eye makeup off her face. She seriously looked like she'd been in bed with a boy. Huh. She turned to John. "You will never in a billion million years learn not to underestimate me, will you? See you downstairs. Don't—you know, dirty anything on your way down."


	2. Chapter 2 Good Feelings 20b

So, this is the companion piece to Good Feelings . . .if you aren't reading that, it will just be PWP and also without context. . . but it will still probably be kina hot--in a dryhumping, wallsex kind of way.

* * *

Believe me,  
some things I wouldn't miss  
but I look at your pants and, I need a kiss.

--Violent Femmes

* * *

Claire's back hit the wall as she breathed out, "Hi?" She sounded doubtful.

John moved his hands from her hips to lean on his palms against the brick wall on either side of her. He liked how the rough surface bit slightly into his hands, sending his mind briefly back to the image of the zippers on Claire's jacket biting lightly into her wrists. Her breathing hitched at his closeness so he came closer. Hitch more. Want more. Do it.

Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he pulled her ear toward his mouth and growled into it, "I figured I should say hi to you before I made you come in your jeans."

"John Bender," she gasped, again clearly fighting for a light and controlled tone, again failing in the hottest way possible, "always the gentleman. That's what I like about you."

He drew back to see her face in the dim light, because her skin was pale it seemed to glow here as much as it had under neon, but here it was white, pure looking, which only made that _look_ in her eye ten times sexier.

This look: if when she stood by the door bathed in blue and red neon, Claire had been looking at John like he was God, now she was looking at him like he was dinner.

John Bender didn't know which was better.

All he knew was that if he got any fucking harder, he wouldn't need to worry about getting a job because his dick would have invented a new alternative to steel and he could live off the royalties.

He moved his leg between her thighs. Lotta heat there. Moist heat. "Gentleman. Is that right. That's what you like about me? Are you sure?"

Claire looked at him and bit her lip, then smiled around the teeth, nodding. He dove in and took her lip from between her teeth with his own, then sucked it, then bit it. A little bit hard. It made her pant. "If you say so."

John wanted to scold her for coming down here looking like she did, it really wasn't safe. He wanted to be the only danger in her life—surely, he was bad enough.

Plus, he was sure that scolding her would be hot as hell. He was having this trouble with words, though, his tongue was all thick from just wanting this girl. And here she was. He trailed his finger over the torn neckline of her shirt, just by her collarbone then stuck a finger in one of the little tears and pulled.

Claire maybe needed just a little bit of scolding—mostly because that was fucking hot as hell and it was a day when John needed, really needed, to be on top in as many ways as he could. "Miss Standish, you came into my pool hall looking like sex."

She blushed and looked down. "Sorry—I just, I didn't want to stand out, I didn't want to embarrass you," and she fluttered her eyes at him, suddenly shy.

New alternative to steel? Check.

And he would definitely be scolding her again sometime soon.

But for now, John laughed slightly, because the shy was real, her answer was real, and she didn't really get what she was playing at, what she looked like, how she made him feel. "Yeah, you should be sorry. Do you know how much it sucked when you showed up looking like my fucking fantasy girl in a room full of other guys, who all want you like fuck and then all have to cop to the fact that you were looking for me? I might never get over it. No, don't talk. My tongue will get in your way."

It would have, too, because first his lips were on hers but she opened immediately, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him toward her. This was more, more than it had been even before, and then his tongue was deep in her mouth, no teasing this time. Plunging, wet, hot, deep. She moaned and arched into him. One hand he held to the wall, the other was up her leather, up her t-shirt, all the fuck over her back. All the fuck over it because she was wearing _no fucking bra._ How had this escaped him? Best. Surprise. Ever. He moaned into her mouth and pressed her, his hand wide across her back. "_Fuck_, Claire, what. . ."

Between hard, shuddering breaths, she managed "You had my back . . . at school. . . turns out I think that's beyond hot . . .in more than one way . . ."

"Well, you're not alone in that fucking opinion, Claire, and the good thing is, there's a whole high school full of bitches with lockers . . ." but he couldn't even finish because she was grabbing at his t-shirt, scratching at his skin there with her nails through the cotton.

She kept talking. Technically, this meant he should be working harder but he also wanted to know what she was saying. It sounded good.

"I would want you like this anyway, I wanted you this morning, I wanted to die when you didn't want to talk to me, please don't do that again for a little while," and she was suddenly so vulnerable, soft—_and so braless_, put in his now very happy boy parts—in his arms, giving herself to him just a little more each day, each hour, that John felt an actual lump in his throat, as if the love thing had passed from stomach flu to strep or some shit.

"I'll try not to. And I'm sorry already if I do. And I always want you like this. All the fucking time." His hand smoothed down along her back, around where her waist curved, up her front, her skin was so smooth against his rougher hand, but then. _No bra._ It actually stopped him.

John Bender suddenly felt a little nervous, another step, a closeness—it _meant_ _so much_ to him, beyond what the boy parts were feeling. It was touching him way, way deep somewhere, somewhere not in his pants but in his chest and in his throat and he had the need to meet her eye.

His weight shifted so his other hand could stroke her face and her eyes looked glazed in that way they got when he'd been touching her. He remembered her words from before when he'd been being _such_ an asshole to her, the desperate, lost way she'd said he could touch her after all, "because I fucking love it," and that memory tugged at him with a terrible, bittersweet ache. But now behind the glaze, there was a warmth that was different from the heat between them. Claire looked—here with him with his hand up her shirt, against a brick wall in an alley behind a pool hall—so fucking happy, it made him almost cry with wanting to be _worth_ making her feel that way.

What he saw in her eyes was the answer John had needed to find, and he let go a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. Then her tongue came out and swept over her lower lip and then her top lip met her lower lip and formed the whispered word, "Please."

Gone. John slammed his hand back on the wall and his hand was on her, _no bra,_ she moaned and arched and she felt amazing, so soft in his hand but then she was hard, _oh, God, she really liked this, she really liked his hand on her,_ the peak of her was rough against his hand and she moaned again as his finger grazed it. _She_ really _liked it, _Fuck_ she liked it,_ God_ he liked it right back._ She moaned again as he pinched her lightly and John felt that moan deep in his groin.

John's entire body was buzzing with the feel of her and the knowledge she'd come down here _like that,_ for him, to feel him, _like this_. He ground into her and her eyes rolled back and her head rolled back, her red, thick, shiny, messy hair spread against the brick, writhing at the feel of his hands on her. How anyone so rich could look so fucking made for a place like this, he had no idea, but holy shit, did this girl do a brick wall justice.

She whimpered and his mouth was on her again, on her mouth til she moaned his name right into it, into his mouth, which made him grind again, and she ground back and he saw stars. Her hand went up under his shirt and he felt her nails on his back and he saw more stars and then his teeth were her neck, then he hiked her up and those teeth were on her nipple through her shirt. She cried out.

"Shit, sorry, Claire, baby, is that ok?" He let her slide down a little, worried.

"Better than." She grabbed onto his hair and yanked his mouth back on hers, and she bit his tongue. "Tongue, teeth, scars and all," she mumbled, "just you."

John pulled back, staring at her. Who the fuck was this? Claire Standish? She was like a fantasy, saying and doing all the things he'd ever hoped anyone would say or do—things really, he wouldn't dare hope. Fuck. He was clearly dreaming. That sucked. Maybe the love stuff actually _was_ flu, after all, and this was all some kind of fucked up fever dream. And here was more proof, because now, the words coming out of her mouth. . . .

"John," she said, trembling, "do you think you can do what you said—you know, in my jeans?"

***

Claire couldn't even believe this was her, really her, pressed up against a dirty alley wall pleading to be sullied by someone who just a week ago she would have dismissed as burnout scum. And yet, it had been all she'd thought about since the second she'd seen and heard Ruth-Ann freak out. Claire knew, she _knew_ what must have happened. What _he_ must have done. For her. Because he believed her. Because he was _hers,_ and she was _his, _whether he'd figured that out yet or not_._

All her grown-up, responsible thoughts about how she needed a little distance after today and how glad she was she hadn't gone any further with him, how dangerous he was, how broken, how beyond her, how she needed to be responsible for both of them—all those thoughts, gone.

All that might be true, she didn't know. She might go right back to thinking them tomorrow, even.

All she'd known the rest of _this_ day, though, all she knew, was that John Bender had defended her, defended _them_, and that furthermore, if John Bender didn't get his hands on her, and soon, she was going to die a slow and painful death and at the same time never make it until morning. Every minute, every inch of her body had been alive to the idea of his touch, it was like she could feel his hands ghosting over her, teasing, not quite touching, and her body was suddenly good for nothing except being touched. By him. A lot.

And not necessarily gently.

Kenny told her where to find him.

She'd gone home in a daze, partly to get a car, but mostly, just to change clothes. She'd dressed so he'd know she'd meet him halfway. She'd dressed so he'd know right away that she wanted him, _him,_ like he was and where he was, that this wasn't all about him changing. She'd also dressed so he'd look at her and get hard and want her to feel that she'd made him that way.

That last part, at least, had worked out.

Because as soon as she'd asked if he could do really do that with her in jeans he'd lost his shit.

In seconds he'd grabbed her ass and squeezed and hiked her up against the wall and _slammed_ his denim-clad erection right into her crotch, growling, "You fucking better believe it, starting Right. Fucking. Now."

That thing she'd seen in the boiler room before, that out of control side of John Bender she thought she'd like to see—here was another taste of it.

And it was, totally, mind-numbingly, insanely sexy. It was doing something to her stomach and it was fluttering between her legs but it wasn't butterflies. It was more like bees, under her skin, in her pulses, buzzing, loud, almost painful.

Bees, but maybe flaming bees. Wow.

John buried his head in her neck and moaned, she grabbed onto him tighter and then he bit her neck, then moaned again. She lifted his head to meet her gaze and fought with the bees to find words and fit her mouth to their shape.

Small victories. "Just so you know, John, when I went home—I had to change my panties, too, I don't know how they got _so wet_—"

Fist in her hair. Tongue down her throat. Hand on her breast, kneading, squeezing. Hard. A little painful. Hot. Hips together, grinding.

It was true, it really was like an itch. An aching, delicious, desperate itch. It wanted friction.

More words. This time from him. "Do you make yourself come, Claire?" His face looked insane, fighting so hard for some control.

He really was, she thought, a gentleman, he hadn't even tried to go down her pants.

"I can't. I tried. I think it might be just you who can do that." She knew she wasn't quite playing fair, she knew he couldn't really lose it, and she was saying things she knew would push him in that direction. Like he said, she was no angel.

But on the other hand, she wasn't playing, because what she said was true, and it scared her.

And she thought John Bender might have sobbed a little at her words, that it might only be him, and suddenly she wanted to inhabit him, she wanted to be so close, he could devour her and it would not be close enough.

His voice sounded incredibly thick, he was making an effort to sound soft but it sounded more like a growl. No, there was really nothing soft about him as he asked, through clenched teeth, dick pushing between her legs, "Do you want me to?"

He licked a trail from the base of her throat to her jaw and dragged his teeth along her jawline, up to her ear, where he whispered, thick and wet and buzzing, "Do you want me to make you come, Claire?"

God, he was sexy. Of course she did, of course she wanted that. Right now, here, in a dark alley with this slightly broken bad boy. It was like she'd never wanted anything else.

"Duh, John Bender," she breathed.

In nothing flat he'd hitched one of her legs up had it wrapped around him. He started pumping into her, through denim, but she could feel him hard and feel herself wet and opening, "Oh, God—" she breathed, "I can't believe how this feels."

He was doing something a little swivelly with his hips so he pressed into her and then to the side and then back again, then around, back, in—God. She felt so strange. Light-headed, grainy. Wet. Tingly. His hand grabbed in her hair again, twisting, and his mouth was on her. He started speaking in the rhythm of his hips, "Oh, fuck" she felt herself say, "Oh, fuck, John, please—" but she didn't know what she needed, and he did. Which meant that what she needed, was him.

"You, look, like, sex, Claire." Tongue all around the mouth, deep, thrusting. "When, I, saw, you, I, got, so, hard, I, coulda, passed, out." Tongue in the ear, swirling. "And I thought of this. This, not even fucking," When his strokes against her got a little longer, his phrases got a little longer, but he punctuated the length with short thrusts and tugs on her hair and bursts of air in her ear that were also words and were edged with tongue and teeth. He was holding her to him with just one hand on her ass and she couldn't stand, she couldn't stand it, she couldn't—

"Just," thrust, "This," tug, "really, just _thinking_ about," thurst, "touching you" bite, "beats," some kind of crazy hip twirl, and then into a rhythm, "fucking, any, other, girl, on, the," long, slow, grazing, thrust, "planet."

With each word and movement she'd been building and writhing and aching and with the last word, she felt it, it was like a wave going all through her, she cried and stiffened and spasmed and it felt— like nothing else, her body was liquid and fire and bees, and a waterfall, and a wave, and light, and she felt her voice catch on his name with a little sob and he'd kept moving against her and then he heard his voice, "ohfuck, ohfuckohjesusfuck" until he stiffened and groaned—_really_ loud—and then sort of collapsed against her.

And all there was, was breathing.

Then she felt it, bubbling up inside her and she knew she was going to do it. She couldn't stop. She laughed.

John pushed away a little and gave her a _look._ "So you think that's funny?"

Claire shook her head no but said, "yes," and then leaned her head back, shaking with giggles. "I just—I can't help it, I feel so good, and now I see what all the fuss is over and women are always complaining that they can't have them and I have one in the back alley without even really getting to third base!"

"I gotta say, you do look pretty fucking delighted." John started chuckling too. "That was really your first one?"

She nodded, biting her lip. John looked like he liked that idea pretty well. "Y'know, it always will be, too," he said. "No matter who you end up with, where you go, how much money that motherfucker has, it's always gonna be me who was first, huh? Here, just me, against a brick wall, with all your clothes on." He shook his head, trying to get his mind around the idea.

The atmosphere had changed and Claire stopped laughing. Her hand rose to his face and brushed his hair back, lingering on his jaw. "That's right, John, it'll always be you."

He inhaled sharply and his eyes darkened at that. Then John Bender just looked at her, steadily, as if memorizing, stroking her face, as if his fingers were memorizing too. Then, abruptly, he shook his head like a dog clearing water from his ears. "Well, fuck me, that's some all right shit, then, Standish." He dug into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and leaned up against the wall beside her.

"Can I have one?" asked Claire.

"Why, Princess," John looked at her askance, "don't tell me you're taking this bad girl look all the way to cancer, now."

Blushing, Claire shook her head. "I have one now and then, you know, at parties, and it just seemed—appropriate?" And she burst into another fit of giggles.

John started chuckling too, handing her a cigarette. He fumbled to light it, in fact, he was chuckling so hard.

"What?" she asked, blowing a very serviceable smoke ring, she thought, and hoping she looked at least a little sexy doing it.

John shook his head. "I can't believe you made me come in my fucking _pants,_ Claire. Do you know how long it's been since _that_ happened?"

"Really?" she squeaked. "You did? I did?"

He looked at her like she was crazy. "You missed that? Who were _you_ with, Claire?"

"Well," Claire looked uncomfortable—"you seemed. . . happy, but I don't really know what to look for, I mean, I never . . . saw _anything_ before, and now--I didn't really _do_ anything."

"Whoa, whoa. Okay, first—" and he chuckled again, "since I didn't take my jeans off, first clue is that my fucking pants are wet, ok? Excellent that I happen to have this long-ass coat and a change of clothes in my backpack, right? And second, you didn't _do_ anything? Jesus, Claire. Get a grip."

He took a deep drag and looked at her sideways. "Claire. I think I mentioned you looked like sex but you know, that was _before_ I learned what sex _really_ looked like, when I watched your face when—" he shook his head. "You're amazing. Trust me."

"I think I just did," she said softly, almost to herself.

"Well, then," he said, still looking very amused, "I guess this day turned out a lot better than it looked like it would."

Claire looked up at him again, and realized he looked cocky as hell. Which looked, of course, _extremely_ good on him. And, thinking back to their nightmare of a morning, and the nightmare of _his_ morning that had been even worse, she was suddenly and completely thrilled to have helped put that cocky look back on his face.

Not so thrilled, though, that she didn't have to tease him about it just a little bit. "So you look pretty proud of yourself, there."

He laughed, shaking his head back. "Well, yeah, I think I pretty much rock, don't you?"

Claire couldn't help but agree. "I've got to be the most well-sexed virgin ever."

"Well, don't count those Catholic kids out, but I promise you I'm working very hard on it and I'd like to see you take that title." He smirked. _Really_ pleased with himself. Which was fine. Not everything had to be about restraint and maturity, Claire figured, when you were seventeen and you and the sexiest boy in the world were really into each other.

John took a deep drag and flicked the butt. "Right now, though, we'd better go find maybe the least well-sexed virgin ever."

Claire clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh my God, we are the worst people ever. I _totally_ lost track of time."

"No shit. Don't worry. Rocket was watching him. He owed me. And listen, it's funny—Brian? He gets along fine with just—normal guys. He doesn't care what they look like, they don't care what he looks like—they just, you know, talk. Like my friend Kenny. They're thick as thieves, these days."

"Really," said Claire. "Huh."

"It's the fucking jocks and popular kids Brian can't really deal with," John went on. "And, you know, guys like me who scare the shit out of him. But here—no plumber's gonna care if you're _popular,_ you know? And if he found even one dude to listen to his physics lesson? He's probably having the time of his life."

Then John Bender put his arm around her waist like it just belonged there, and led her back into the building. "Jesus, I've gotta change my fucking pants," he grumbled. But John, despite looking more than a little uncomfortable in his jeans looked pretty fucking delighted, himself.

* * *

Reviewers get . . . a change of pants?


	3. Chapter 3 Goodfeelings 23b

**Guest epigraph by T-rex. Estate of John Hughes no doubt owns these characters. John Bender owns me. **

**

* * *

  
**

You're dirty sweet and you're my girl

--T-rex

"Close your eyes."

John Bender wasn't in any position right now to deny kinky virgins anything at all.

In the dark he could smell the cherry of her fresh gloss, the gloss she'd bought to tell him things. To tell him he was alright with her.

Still trying to wrap his mind around that one.

In his mind's eye, Claire's lips were like really classy porn.

Better not say that one out loud.

John wanted to put his mouth on those lips again right now, to tongue the slick cherry coating with his own taste of smoke that never left him. But these days his Marlboro bitter was laced with wild cherry left by lifesavers like the ones he'd worried all day in his mouth while his heart worried the _real_ Cherry was slipping away from him, right while she seemed to be closer than ever.

But now she really was closer than ever. Closer than anyone, ever, ever had been. He wondered if she knew that.

He wondered if she'd put her hand on his cock again any time soon.

It was kind of intense how this girl could turn him into a total pussy and get him incredibly hard at the same time. _Ironic_, he thought, wondering if he could put that to use in another English lesson. Mad as he'd been, that had been hot as hell.

She was _so_ close, he could hear her adjusting something, a faint rustling. But still nothing.

So he waited. A patient man he was not. But Claire Standish had put a key in his hand and said _things. _

John Bender was also aware he might require a little more patience than a princess was used to.

Considering he was the kind of guy who when he wanted ask a girl to go steady, the way he did that was to talk about algebra and then get her somewhere private so he could scold and kick and slam things, then call her names and tell her how going steady went against his principles but she'd better not fuck around.

Wrapped it up nicely by bruising the hell out of her pristine white neck and telling her eloquently it made him hard as fuck.

Hadn't even gotten around to sweet-talking her by telling his virgin _girlfriend_ how hard and how long he wanted to fuck her when she moaned with his mouth on her or when she did something else amazingly sexy like move any part of her body.

Right now, though, he noticed, she was standing very still and he was being _faithful _ and not _cheating_ by keeping his eyes closed.

What a strange fucking turn the world had taken.

"Whatcha doin' there, Princess?"

John Bender, Zen Master. His voice hadn't shaken at all.

"Keep your eyes closed. I want it to be a surprise. Just relax your mouth . . . there."

Her finger smoothed over his lips with something slippery. And not synthetic.

John's eye's flew open. No way. No _fucking_ way.

It was fine. He hadn't really been using those heartbeats anyway.

Her finger was still on his lower lip, rubbing back and forth. Her face looked shy and devious and naughty and innocent at the same time as her eyes met his and changed somehow without moving or blinking.

"Is—is that—I just wanted you to—know." She bit her lip. "That I liked my first hickey, John. And I thought you could learn from a. . . sample of those additional materials. A new, um, concept in cherry flavored lip--"

She said the last part very quickly and it trailed off. She tried to smile. Her voice was shaking.

John had no voice because he would clearly never be speaking again.

His virgin girlfriend transcended porn.

He grasped her hand and brought her finger into his mouth, sucking it. He watched as her breath hitched and the contours of her face changed again, grew edged with desire as her eyes widened, watching his lips around her finger as his tongue circled it slowly, pushing on its tip and rubbing its sides. He pulled her hand back, finger out of his mouth and followed it with his tongue so she could watch as he licked it from base to tip.

Then down again.

Then up the next finger, tongue outside the mouth, then fingertip in, swirl, suck, graze the tip with teeth and tongue. Tongue showing in mouth, between teeth, fingers, lips, slow-moving. His eye never left hers. Her eyes darted from his mouth and tongue to his eyes and her own tongue licked her parted lips gently.

Then, never breaking eye contact, he took her hand and brought it down to his jeans where she'd touched before and pressed it into himself there. So she could feel it too.

He pressed her hand harder than she had. He watched her eyes widen, he heard her gasp, and then her head nodded, just slightly.

John Bender couldn't exactly be said to be having thoughts. He was having feelings. Mostly l-words. Love, lust, longing. Liking, licking.

He was so with this girl, they were so together. He didn't know how many girls he'd been inside of, but he'd never been in this deep.

"Now, Cher.," he said softly, "you come taste it."

Without a blush or a hesitation, she brought her face near his, then _smiled_ just a fraction, just a tiny smile, but a smile that went straight into the heart and the groin of John Bender and took up its ownership there in style.

And then her lips were on his and then her tongue was on his lips and then they were just mouths.

And her hand on his cock, learning how it felt to do that to a boy. She let her fingers edge around it. They sent trails and tendrils of excruciating desire through him and he had to put her hand a little harder onto him and her hand just followed his suggestion. She was so sweet and sexy and trusting at the same time. Then she put it in a rhythm with the stroke of her tongue on his tongue and for some moments that was all there was in the universe.

Then she pulled back slightly from the kiss and licked her lips. Not lasciviously. But just as if she wanted to savor something left behind.

John felt the smile on his face because she looked so cute and he was so owned, just like she had wanted. And nothing, nothing in the history of the world, had ever been that sexy.

"You are the sexiest thing that ever happened in the history of the goddamn world, Cherry."

Her smile got wider.

"I told you I thought of it as expanding my horizions."

John chuckled softly. "I'll give you expansion."

This time, Claire did blush a little. "I guess you will," she agreed, darting a glance at his pants.

Laughing full out, John shook his head and took her hand, now playing with it, his head still spinning with desire but his heart just happy. In no hurry. He touched her hair, then her lips, then brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her finger.

"We're gonna have a really good time, Claire."

She met his eyes and nodded.

After some timewarp of eyeing and longing for what you had right there that lasted he didn't know how long cause time was now a different thing, Claire looked a little uncertain again and gestured towards John's pants. "Do you want to, um, help me—I don't know, finish that?"

John shook his head and kissed her cheek. She was so sweet and awkward one minute and a porn star the next. She was adorable. He adored her. "Nah. I'm good."

"You're really—good about control," she stated. John felt like he might hear a tinge of dissatisfaction there. No. Disappointment. _What was that about?_

So he nodded. ""Working on it."

She kept silent, nodded slightly. Again, John got a slight sense of disappointment which was the very last thing in the world he was feeling and the last thing he wanted Claire to feel. He tried to clear his lust-addled thoughts for a moment to go back to things Claire liked. Things he liked. Things that bothered the two of them.

He got a flicker. Something connecting the upset he'd had today at "harmless" with the way Claire liked to push his buttons with the way she had looked last night when he'd had her up against the wall. Other times against the wall. Other warnings. Other responses.

"Know why I'm working on it?" he asked, keeping it casual.

She shook her head, not meeting his eye.

"I don't want to incur any penalties." He swallowed and hoped no one was taping him because if they were no guy would ever talk to him again, probably. "If we fucked and you backed off, even the way you did today, I would wanna fucking die, ok?" He sighed and rolled his eyes, raked his hand through his hair. He really was going to say it. He really was. "."

Claire smiled. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

"What was that?"

"You heard me. If you think I'm saying something like that twice in my life you're a crazier bitch than I thought," he barked.

Claire's smile broadened. Then she said, "Very good answer, John."

"Yeah, plus that shirt you're wearing is like the Antisex, ok?"

Claire giggled. "Why do you think I put it on?" She tossed her head.

"Yeah, well the fuckin' anti-sex qualities of any given shirt are more than goddamn mitigated by the extent to which you use your. . . _stuff_ as lip gloss, ok?" He shook his head.

She blushed a little. "So that didn't—like, it wasn't, I don't know, bad or something?"

"Hell yeah, it was bad. I'm gonna be hard for the rest of my life now, I'll walk funny, don't know how the hell I'm gonna get anything done at work. I'll be in _here _ all day and Dick fuckin' Vernon's gonna think it's all for him. Did you never think about that? Here you talk all this talk about how you're on my side, when actually you're trying to kill me with death by perpetual hard-on!" John folded his arms. "Miss Standish. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Claire blushed a little more, bit her lip and looked—pleased with herself. Which was cute. _So_ cute. Then she shrugged, again, a little less sure. "I mean, I did say—I could try to, you know."

John rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Right A lot of good _that_'ll do. Cause now that you've done that little trick, I'll be hard within seconds every time I think about it. Which will be all the time. So I'm doomed." He shook his head again. "Yeah, nice going there, Claire. Where do you come _up_ with these things?"

"That would be telling," she said, giving him a smug little smirk that he suddenly wanted to fuck right off of her face, control be damned.

Just for a minute, he decided to let it.

Be.

Damned.

John Bender grabbed Claire by the ass and hoisted her back on the lab table and had her body between his arms again so that if she moved she'd touch him. He heard her gasp. Swore he could feel her get wet in the goddamn air.

Smirk was gone. Lust was there full force.

"You know the other reason I have to be careful?"

Claire shook her head slowly. John put his head to her ear and began talking into it. He put one hand in her hair and pulled her head around to bring her ear and neck to his mouth.

"Because if I wasn't in control, I'd be about balls deep in Standish right now and you wouldn't be screaming my name because getting your mouth around a one syllable word would require too much concentration, ok?"

He bit a line all the way along her jaw before slamming his lips into hers, tongue in deep, thrusting his tongue like he wanted to thrust his cock and this time not feeling guilty because he knew, _he knew_ how bad she wanted him like this. His hand was up her shirt and over her bra which was made of lace, she was all pebbly underneath his against the lace and arching into him, moaning, grasping onto his hair and pulling him closer.

He chewed his way down her neck, roughly undoing the buttons on her shirt enough to put his mouth on the swell of her breast. Not all the way down. Because he _did_ have to be in control. He breathed hard there, licked his way up the hers sternum, and put his hands on either side of her again. Panting, his hair in his eye, he looked up at her.

She looked hot as fuck as she asked, "Is that a threat or a promise?"

Mystery of disappointment solved.

She wanted to be fucked as much as he wanted to fuck her. Sure, she didn't know quite what that meant. Sure she wasn't ready. She just didn't want it to be _easy_ for him.

And, fucked up as that might have been, he got that shit all the way. He got not wanting _easy_ like a motherfucker. Especially after today.

"Take that as a goddamn blood oath." He took a deep breath. "Let's just say I'm learning a few things from you, too." He looked deep into her eyes. "I know I said some stuff, but here's the thing. You were right. I wanna _own_ your pussy. I wanna fuck the thought of any other guy fight out of its little pussy head. And I will fucking do it, too. I give that to you in goddamn writing."

Claire just nodded, dumbly.

So, going for broke, John added, "Claire, I have never been this worked up about anything, anyone, in my entire stupid life."

Claire just looked at him all sweet and soft and touchable and John Bender felt like some kind of king. She looked so happy. It felt _so_ _good_ to have her look that happy.

"Sweet-talker," she said, with a little smile.

"Like a goddamn Hallmark card," he nodded. "It's disgusting."

Then she said, softly,

"I'm still going to learn how to make you come with my hands tomorrow night in the motel room I got for your poker game."

John nodded again. "I'll be ok with that."

* * *

**Ok. So. You can't really blame any of that on Poor John Hughes. In reviews, if you want to weigh in on what parts of this should go to the T-rated recap in the next fic, I'd be will get smutty teasers.  
**


	4. Chapter 4 Goodfeelings 29b

"I look at your pants and, I need a kiss."

-Violent Femmes

* * *

"Not _just _a project." Claire kneeled back beside John and moved her mouth down to his chest, where the chocolate was melting, and her tongue lapped at him there, all over.

"Also dessert," she said, and licked a trail of syrup up his chest. "Your skin is a little salty, it's really good with all the sweet stuff. It's kind of, like, gourmet." She giggled, it sounded a little nervous.

"I'll give you salty sweet stuff—oh_,_ _fuck,_ Claire, what the fuck are you _doing?_"

"Is it bad?" She sounded panicked.

Somewhere in the swirling, John heard his voice swearing and saying no, and then yes, and then who the fuck knew. Claire seemed to get the idea of "not bad" from this, for which John Bender was very grateful, because his lips were struggling with some kind of words, but who the hell knew what they were.

All he knew, the single, only thing, was that Claire Standish's lips and tongue were all over his chest. Until they weren't, because they were on his neck, sucking and biting the way you could tell, someone was trying to leave a mark. He _loved_ that, that his skin would say that Claire had been there, way clearer than he could speak at the moment.

She pulled back.

"Is that too much?"

"_Hell_ no. That all you got?"

Which got his chest bit _hard,_ just like he'd wanted, and he strained against the cuffs and the metal bit him, too, and it was just, exactly right.

John Bender said something he hoped expressed that sense of rightness.

It must have been ok, because Claire giggled into his skin, saying she loved chocolate covered cherries, and she couldn't believe she was doing this.

John made as if to bite her back and warned her to have some manners and leave some candy for him, and she laughed, saying he was already getting more candy than he deserved, and the whole scene was so _them,_ he thought he might come from that alone.

Then she put another chocolate in her mouth and bent toward his mouth and they ate it together for a while, tongues and sweet and goo. And the cuffs, always, a sharp metal reminder at his wrists.

"Enough dessert," she said when chocolate was done. "This relationship is terrible for my diet."

"Seriously," said John, regaining admirable control of words, he thought, "your diet includes raw fish wrapped in seaweed. It has nowhere to go but up."

"Seriously," said Claire, "dessert's over." Her hand trailed down towards his jeans again, and John's words took another holiday.

"It's time to get to work on that other project." She took a deep breath. "I can _not_ believe I'm doing this. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will never learn how to give head. And I'll chain you to Brian and swallow the key."

"My lips are so motherfucking sealed, you can't believe it."

Then her face was near his again, wide-eyed and interested. "So I did some research for this project? And I'm pretty sure I could make you come by massaging you under your shorts while I suck on your nipple. What do you think?"

And her hand was in his boxers, skin on skin.

"I don't know," he gritted, "give it a try."

She did.

First just her hand. "Wow. I've never touched one before. It's kind of—smoother, softer than I thought."

"Trust me, Claire, _not soft._"

She laughed. She was having fun. Thank fucking God. This felt like heaven. In fact, suddenly it seemed like the only thing bad that could ever happen to John Bender was that Claire would stop what she was doing. So if Claire Standish had fun touching his dick, that was fucking great entertainment news.

"No, I mean the skin. It's soft. Over the hard. And ooh. These feel kind of funny."

On some plane of his existence that was barely functioning, John registered that Claire Standish was touching balls for the first time, and they were _his_, and that was _awesome._

But mostly, he just felt great and wanted more.

Fine. They feel funny. Whatever. More.

He opened his eyes, which he seemed to have closed. Claire was looking at her hand in his shorts. She hadn't even taken him out all the way, though she could for sure see some of him.

She looked so _interested._ Like he really was a science project.

Well, he wasn't about to complain because she was clearly instinctively really a star student in the hand job department. And he was seeing stars.

But somewhere, he made a firm resolution to have her writhing and begging for _something_ from him, a lot beyond _interested,_ at some point before they left this motel room.

Claire's hand was out of his shorts, then. Which was bad. She got up again. Which was worse.

John bit back a swear and shut his eyes. _Maybe she just needs to pee._

But then, the girl was back on the bed, and the hand was back in his shorts, and now—it was slippery.

There was a God, and he loved John Bender, all appearances to the contrary.

She'd brought oil. Her hand was slick, and warm, and now squeezing harder, and it was and the best thing he'd ever felt.

"I heard chafing can be a problem," Claire explained softly.

John tried to communicate his total lack of a problem with anything that was happening.

Which apparently got through, because then Claire's mouth was back on his chest, tongue and teeth swirling. Her hand was back in his shorts, gripping and sliding, in a rhythm now, and then her other hand was in his hair, twisting, and that hurt so fucking good, it was like there was a line of pleasure and pain that went from every point of contact, tying him in knots of getting exactly what he wanted and wanting more at the same time.

Someone was whining and moaning and swearing and it was him.

Project was going well.

No one, no one had ever made him feel so good. Not ever. And it wasn't even his cock that was getting the blowjob. She was blowing his chest, somehow.

She was blowing his fucking mind.

And then she paused, John caught her eye and she looked shy, again, like she needed reassurance. But John couldn't manage much. He rolled his eyes and panted that she was definitely hired, which might technically not be the correct thing to say in these circumstances, but it seemed to do the trick.

Because she kept going, which was really all he cared about at the moment.

Things were just so good. His entire torso was wet from her mouth and sticky from candy. Her hand was slick with oil and had a great sense of rhythm. John was in love with Claire's hand, suddenly.

He was in love with Claire, too, and she was making love to him, the way she somehow, incredibly, knew how to do, the way she'd thought about doing based on what she saw in him, watching, listening, seeing. Like only she could.

And obviously doing some kind of high-achiever studying, too.

"Oh, my FUCKING GOD!" His voice was a kind of roar.

John felt like he was levitating off the bed and straining against the cuffs, and then ache and itch and swirl and blast-off, and then gone, not even in the building, just so, so, so good.

Like he really let go, fell and floated and let someone catch him.

And when it was over, and he was panting, looking at her, and she was looking at his stuff on her fingers like it was a very interesting part of the science project gone well, and he started laughing. He just felt so good.

Totally, totally relaxed and good, with the virgin examining his cum, both of them still half-dressed.

"What?" She asked, but she was laughing, too.

"You'd laugh, too. Do you know how good I feel?"

Claire bit her lip. Shy again. "No."

"You're an amazing goddess genius algebraically accelerating S&M virgin porn queen."

Claire giggled. "So is that good?"

John was laughing so hard, the cuffs bit into him again, and he found he'd had enough of them. Plus he wanted to hold his S&M virgin girlfriend.

He knew he'd had some worries before, about something, but he couldn't imagine what they had been.

"Babe, can you take these off now?"

"Yeah, sure—just—hang on a second."

Claire took her finger, trailed it in his mess that was all over his belly, and put her finger in her mouth.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He'd only been speaking the truth. He'd never need porn again. He had visuals for the rest of his life.

"Hmm," she said again.

"Jesus H. Christ, Claire, you are so sexy, it should be illegal."

And she just beamed. Like teen-age, high school-girl beamed. Like she'd gotten an A on her project.

She took the key from the table by the bed and undid the handcuffs. John stretched his arms. His arms were sore, but that was just a great reminder of what had happened. He felt incredibly, incredibly relaxed.

"Hey, Claire, can you take your shirt off and come here?" His speech was a little slurred, but he definitely wasn't drunk. "I'm probably sticky, and I don't wanna get that cashmere bra dirty, but I want to spoon the hell out of you."

"Um, yeah—" she paused, and John couldn't see her face. "But…I forgot to bring pajamas. Do you have an extra t-shirt I could sleep in?"

He smiled, then shook his head, then said yes, it was in his bag.

Claire blushed, grabbed a shirt, and scurried into the bathroom.

She could cuff him, make him scream and lick his cum off her fingers, but she was embarrassed to take her shirt off in front of him.

He felt like he would _never_ figure Claire out. But right then, John Bender felt like he'd be happy to die trying.


End file.
